An Innocent Misunderstanding
by Inkblot9
Summary: After the Alph-Art affair, Tintin retained an amicable friendship with Miss Martine. Their respective notions about the true nature of their relationship, however, may slightly differ. Established Haddock/Tintin; one-sided Martine/Tintin
1. On the Agenda

"_Good morning, handsome!_"

That cheerful trill was uplifting as always—one of the few sounds truly welcome to the ex-sailor's ears at this hour. That voice could convince him that perhaps it _was_ a good morning, that maybe _all_ mornings were good despite his many grumbles upon awakening and the unholy effort it took to get out of bed. That voice, laced with undying faith and filled with love, could make him believe on even the worst mornings that maybe he _was_ handsome, even though he had thought the polar opposite for most of his life.

After all, what sort of relationship could they possibly have if he thought his dear Tintin was lying to him every single day?

"Good morning, beautiful," Haddock hummed in response at last. He smiled in spite of himself as he sauntered into the sitting-room. Tintin was reclining cross-legged on their favorite couch, a mug of coffee in each of his hands. Snowy and the cat lazed in a patch of sunlight just beyond his feet.

No matter how many times they greeted each other like this, Haddock would always find himself struck by the wonder of it all. The thought of a pair of lovers exchanging warm hellos might be mundane to some, but not to him, not anymore. How could it be, after all that had happened between them?

The Captain reached for one of the cups as he approached, but Tintin was quicker. He swiftly set aside the steaming drinks, placing them atop the nearby side-table. "Ah-ah," he tutted, holding a finger in the air. Before the elder man could make a further move, the younger leant forward and pulled his partner into a hearty kiss.

"Now, that's more like it," Tintin said with a cheeky smile once their lips parted. He handed off the coffee Haddock had been anticipating and lifted the other one to his own mouth, his dimples still visible beyond the rim of the mug.

The Captain seated himself down next to his companion and took a gulp of coffee himself. "Aaah," he sighed, smacking his lips. _It's no Loch Lomond, of course,_ he thought privately, _but it's plenty good all the same._

"You're just full of surprises, eh, Tintin?" he commented. "You've always got something up your sleeve. Trekking 'cross the world, knocking out gangsters twice your size…and now getting outta bed at the crack of dawn on a Saturday just to make coffee for this old man."

"You're not _old_."

Oh, that voice again. Those words were so often attributed to the dynamic between irritated teenagers and their middle-aged parents. But here, they sounded like the deepest of endearments.

"And I can't take credit for the coffee," Tintin went on. "That was thanks to Nestor, proficient as always. I was merely the deliverer of said beverage."

"Ach, don't sell yourself short, my boy!" Haddock nudged the redhead playfully, and both of them chuckled. Within the next few moments, Tintin swallowed the last of his drink and promptly fell into the Captain's lap. The fabrics of their robes and pajamas swished against each other as he did so, only adding to the sense of warmth between the two.

"Well, then, what've you got planned today, my darling?" Haddock asked. "What's on the agenda?"

"Hmm…nothing much, really," Tintin murmured back, absently tracing the anchor pattern on the Captain's dressing-gown with one finger. "Surprising you was the main reason I got up early…But I suppose that now that I'm awake, I could try and get some work done before I meet _Mademoiselle_ Martine this afternoon."

"'_Get some work done_'," Haddock echoed with a scoff. "You're _always_ working, always rushing every which way to fulfill one task or another. It's the weekend, by thunder! Do you _never_ relax?"

As the they grew closer, the Captain had grown to accept, even admire, every one of Tintin's mannerisms, just as the journalist had never judged him for his own awkward habits. And it was true that Tintin had settled down a great deal since he first moved into Marlinspike; it had been quite some time since they last left the country on a high-speed chase. Even so, the youth seemed to be always occupied, always busy, always anxious underneath his outward composure, and sometimes Haddock had to worry.

"I relax!" Tintin protested huffily. "You know that; I practice yoga, I meditate, we take our walks in the woods, and—"

"Fine, fine," Haddock relented. He knew when there was no arguing with Tintin, which was, admittedly, rather often.

"Wait a minute," he said in sudden realization. "D-did you say you were going out with that lass Martine? Martine…Vandezande, was it? The girl from the art gallery?"

"Why, yes," Tintin answered, unconcerned. "I was going to share lunch with her later. Didn't I tell you that already?"

"No, I don't right think you did!"

"Maybe I did, and you just don't remember."

"And maybe you're just a scatterbrain," Haddock muttered under his breath.

"I heard that, Archie!"

"Oh, for goodness' sakes—what I want to know is, lad, why on earth are you taking her out?"

"On the contrary," the young man replied calmly, "_she_ was the one who invited me. And ever since the Alph-Art case we've become good friends. Really, Captain, I don't see what the big deal is. If I were going somewhere with Chang, or with the Thompsons, you wouldn't say a word!"

"Chang lives halfway across the globe, for one thing…and I doubt you would be nearly so enthused over a spot of tea with _those_ two daft monkeys," the Captain said flatly.

"That's true enough." Tintin sat up and shrugged. "But with all due respect, my dear, this doesn't really concern you, does it?"

"It _concerns_ me if you're going to be seeing other people," Haddock stated, bluntly though not unkindly.

Tintin flinched at the comment. He crossed his arms defiantly as his facial expression twisted from contentment to something much more sour. "I'm offended, Archibald," he said after a moment of deadly silence. "Even after everything we've been through, all our promises to one another, you can somehow accuse me of being deliberately unfaithful."

"No, no, no, that's not what I meant!"

"Wasn't it?" A cold glare came into the reporter's eyes, his ire far harsher than any hangover. "It seems to me that's _exactly_ what you meant."

"Blue blistering barnacles, Tintin, I wasn't calling you a cheat! Not by any means! I'm sorry, I didn't quite word that the way I should've, and—"

"Then what, pray tell, are you so upset over?"

"This lass, Martine…now, to be fair, I haven't spent nearly as much time with her as you might have, but…"

Tintin raised his eyebrows, waiting.

"…darlin', I'm fairly certain she's got it bad for you."

"What, you think she's in love with me?" Tintin was almost laughing, now. To him all of this was utterly ridiculous.

"Not _yet_, of course." The Captain frowned. "But after the sort of life I've lived, I know a wench with a diehard crush when I see one."

"Oh, come on, now. I might not be as _experienced_ as you are in such matters, but I'm not some naïve, clueless fool!" Tintin stood up and smoothed out his clothing, averting his gaze from his partner.

"You've also never consorted with women," Haddock pointed out.

Tintin sighed deeply, regretting his bitterness. He turned back to his lover and gave him a peck on the forehead. "Why would I," he said, "when I have you?"

"Oh, aren't you cute." The older man smirked, straightening his own posture. "All right, all right," he said at last. He could have gone on and on about how the lad was acting stubborn and shortsighted, but somewhere within himself he knew it would be pure hypocrisy. "You can do what'cha like. I'm nobody to tell you otherwise. Just…" He looked upon Tintin with genuine care and concern. "Just be careful."

"Of course I will." A smile and nod accompanied Tintin's reply. "Just as always."

With that, he waltzed up the stairs to bathe and dress for the day.

* * *

It was around half-past-one in the afternoon that Tintin made his way to the foyer, ready to leave the Hall and make his way into Brussels. He had donned the russet jeans that had as of late taken the place of his old plus-fours. Replacing his usual blue sweater was a dapper yellow vest and tie.

"You look nice."

Tintin turned his head. Coming up from behind him was the Captain, of course, followed closely by Snowy.

"Er…_merci_," the reporter said as he reached for the coat-hooks.

"Headin' out?" Haddock's voice was tentative, cautious.

"M'hm." Tintin nodded. "Look, Captain, even if you happened to be correct in your assumption, it'd be absolutely impolite of me to cancel on her now. We're just going to have a meal and chat, nothing more."

"You're too much of a gentleman for your own good, you know that?"

"I'm going to choose to take that as a compliment." Simpering, Tintin bent down onto one knee to scratch the head of his loyal terrier. "Be a good boy, Snowy," he instructed. "Take care of the Captain for me, all right?"

Snowy replied with a friendly yap. Though the little white dog was growing older and much less interested in ever leaving home, his devotion to his master was as plain as ever.

Haddock merely grunted. His internal protests of _I can take care of myself_ and _Mark my words, this'll be more trouble than it's worth_ were cut short once his partner's lips met his.

The kiss broke as quickly as it had begun, and Tintin then placed his soft, gentle hands on the Captain's shoulders. "You worry too much," he said, simply and affectionately.

The older man found he no longer had the strength to argue, not when he was up against that same voice and that same old spark in those silver-blue eyes. Framed in the face of the man he loved were the eyes of the boy he would follow anywhere, and though he would not be following this time, the faith he had in that boy still remained.

"I won't be gone long; I'll be back for dinner at the latest." Tintin pulled on his brown tweed jacket and reached for the door handle as he spoke. "Love you, Captain! _Au revoir! À tout à l'heure!_"

No sooner had Haddock uttered his own scratchy "_je t'aime_" than the door clicked shut once more.


	2. Between Good Friends

Tintin now appreciated the quaint tranquility of Moulinsart village far more than the busy city he loved when he was younger. Even so, he felt a sense of attachment to his former hometown. Brussels was where his life had begun, after all. To some nostalgic part of him, this train ride would always feel like a homecoming, even if his flat at Twenty-six Labrador Road was long abandoned.

So it was with a light heart and a smile that Tintin strode off the train and into the sunlight. The few scattered grey clouds above him would do nothing to dampen his mood. He knew the Captain meant well, fussing over him so, but the journalist himself was expecting nothing less than a marvelous afternoon. Said marvelous afternoon would no doubt be followed by an even better evening back at good old Marlinspike Hall.

These thoughts only lifted the young man's spirits higher as he scanned the platform before him. When he caught sight of wavy auburn hair and a sizable pair of eyeglasses, his optimism culminated in an enthusiastic "_Bonjour, Mademoiselle!_"

The head of the girl in question whipped around rapidly at the sound of the greeting. Recognition dawned as soon as her bespectacled green eyes met his steel-blue.

"_Ah! Monsieur Tintin!_" Martine exclaimed, glee in her voice. "I'm so glad you could make it."

"Of course! I wouldn't have missed it for anything," Tintin replied earnestly. He gave her a firm, friendly handshake and a bright grin. "How are you?"

"I'm doing well, thank you. A bit busy, but that's just life, you know? _Monsieur_ Fourcart left some big shoes to fill."

Tintin nodded. This was a good example of why he got along with Miss Vandezande. She understood the necessity for responsibility and work ethic, and he in turn understood the reasons behind such behavior. Once the remaining mysteries surrounding her former employer's death had been dispelled, Martine had taken it upon herself to fill his place at the gallery. She had even begun displaying some art of her own. Tintin had been quite impressed by her initiative, which had led to further interaction between the two.

"And how about you?" Martine inquired as they began to stroll away from the train station. "How're things up at Marlinspike?"

"Oh, same as ever," Tintin answered with good humor. "Snowy sleeps, Professor Calculus fiddles in his lab, Nestor keeps us all in our place…and Captain Haddock and I…"

He trailed off for a moment. The woman beside him knew nothing of what lay beneath the surface of his and Haddock's relationship. Besides the partners themselves, their housemates, Signora Castafiore, and Chang, nobody did. Though Martine had proven herself worthy of trust and amity, this was still a rather touchy subject. It would be best to skirt around it, he figured. He didn't want to take any chance of sullying what could still be a splendid day.

"The Captain and I try to relax as best we can," he finished at last. "We'd like to avoid any further disasters for a while." He let out a soft laugh to cover up any possible awkwardness.

Martine chuckled as well, in apparent agreement. While Tintin had found himself in such situations since he was a young teenager, last year was rather the first time Miss Martine had had criminals on her tail. If anything good had come out of the whole mess, it was an increase in confidence and this—the kindling of a new friendship.

"So, where are we off to?" Tintin questioned, changing the subject. "Did you have a place in mind? For lunch, I mean."

Martine looked up at him, a glint in her eyes behind her glasses. "Oh," she said casually, "I was thinking we might go to the Klow?"

The reporter's eyes widened. He hadn't been to the little Syldavian restaurant in years. In fact, he'd only eaten there once. And for that matter, he hadn't been in pursuit of the fine foreign cuisine, but rather a dark foreign conspiracy. Until just now, he had figured the place wasn't even running anymore!

"I hear it's doing quite well now that it's not under the commission of gangsters and traitors," Martine went on, wearing an amused smile.

"You knew about that?" Tintin questioned in surprise.

"Of course! You speak as if everybody in the country _doesn't_ hang on your every written word." The artist gave her hair a light toss, then turned back to Tintin. "I've always been…well…rather a fan of your work."

Tintin stopped in his tracks then, his mind working much faster than his body. "You mean…you knew who I was, even before we met in person?"

Martine veered around a few people walking in the opposite direction. "Well, yes," she replied once she matched her friend's position again. "I'll admit it took me a little while to put two and two together, as I'd been thrown so off-kilter by…other things, but once I realized I'd been speaking to _Tintin_, _the_ Tintin—"

The journalist cut her off in embarrassment, his freckled face reddening. "Oh, goodness, I'm not that incredible, _Mademoiselle_. But I _can_ say that I have the privilege of the company of _the_ Martine Vandezande, the accomplished modern artist…"

The woman in question giggled, a light tinge spreading on her own cheeks. "Oh…well, I…"

"Come on, then," Tintin said, tilting his head to indicate the direction of progress, "let's go to the Klow and have our lunch. Shall I call a cab?"

"Don't bother." Martine shook her head. "Let's walk. It's a beautiful day."

She took his hand in a dash of excitement, and off they went, meandering animatedly through the streets of the city.

* * *

Martine turned out to be an excellent conversationalist once she came out of her shell. Tintin knew little on the topic of contemporary art, but he found himself engaged in her talk of the subject nonetheless. It was easy, happy conversation they shared between bites of dishes neither of them could pronounce and sips of that pure Syldavian mineral-water. Tintin had been careful to warn his friend to avoid ordering the _szlaszeck_—better safe than sorry.

Inevitably, their respective knowledge on the Kingdom of the Black Pelican wormed its way into the discussion as well. Tintin elaborated on its traditions and culture as well as his own experiences there. Martine, naturally, knew more about its art history: from the illuminated manuscripts of medieval times to the décor right there in the restaurant.

Another thing they found they agreed on was that the Alph-Art movement in and of itself had been absolutely absurd.

"It meant nothing!" Martine exclaimed after swallowing her latest mouthful and dabbing her rose-colored lips with a napkin. "Even before I knew it was linked to…to…to everything else, I thought it was ridiculous. It seemed to be a cleverly-crafted parody at best, just enough to trick the so-called 'experts' into thinking it some sort of legitimate insight. I'd have said something to Mr. Fourcart if I didn't fear losing my job over something so _stupid_. For cripes' sake, _I_ barely trusted my own opinion back then."

Tintin nodded his head, showing both sympathy for the unfortunate scenario and respect for Martine's devotion to her work. "I don't doubt your sincerity, Martine," he said, "nor that you would have done something had you known better."

"Part of me will always be upset over it, I suppose," she murmured. "I was such a fool about it all, right down to that blasted booby-trapped necklace." She propped her head onto one hand with a pout and a _hmph_.

"It wasn't your fault," Tintin reassured her. "None of it. You know the truth now, and you've moved forward with it. That's all anybody could do in the circumstances, and you've done marvelously."

"Thank you." Martine sighed and adjusted her glasses. "That…that means a lot."

"Don't mention it."

There was a pause in their talk then, as a waiter coughed and set down a bill on their table.

Martine reached for her purse first, but Tintin stopped her. "I'll get it," he insisted. He mocked shooing away his companion's advance with one hand and pulled his wallet from his pocket with the other. He looked over the slip of paper, mentally calculated an appropriate tip, and then withdrew the money he would need.

Both of the pair of redheads gave the waiter polite smiles and nods when he returned. He spoke with a heavy Syldavian accent that neither of them could completely decipher, so that was their best attempt at communication. Thankfully, at least their general intent seemed to be understood.

"'_First love is empty, first love is blind; true love can see all but it pays no mind,_'" Tintin recited aloud once they were alone again, leaning back slightly in his chair.

Martine looked back at him quizzically, as if to ask, _Where'd you pull that from?_

"Oh—it was on the bill," the journalist replied to the unspoken question. "It's their custom to send their patrons off with a little saying. They did the same last time I was here. To be frank, though, it was more of a passive-aggressive warning than a thoughtful quip, that time…"

The proverb made Tintin think of the Captain, waiting for him back home. The words were relevant to the two of them, he figured. The affection they harbored for one another was left long unsaid, until one more calamitous adventure led them to realize what they had been missing. The veil of invariable perfection was lifted, and with that, the understanding of all that they were, they only fell harder for each other.

He blinked and brought himself back to the present. He came forward again, facing Martine straight on. "So, er…shall we head out?"

"I suppose we should," Martine conceded. "It's been a lovely time," she added after a pause.

"It has," Tintin agreed. "I've very much enjoyed our afternoon. I'm glad I took you up on your offer."

He closed his eyes as he smiled, but then they flew open again in shock. Something warm was held against his mouth, another pair of lips touching his. They were not the kind he was used to—coarse and thick, sandwiched between prickles of beard. No, these lips were softer, tenderer…more _feminine_.

Miss Martine had leant herself halfway across their table, her hair and glasses nearly touching Tintin's face. She had trapped her companion in a wholly unexpected show of passion and he had no idea how to react.

_Careless idiot! _Tintin's mind shouted at him. _What have you gotten yourself into now?_ _Captain Haddock was right all along, and you refused to listen to him! The man who knows you best!_

When his friend—his _admirer_—pulled back, Tintin felt his face growing warm again. This was not the pleasant, tingly sort of blush he felt after a kiss from his Captain or even Martine's compliments from earlier. Rather, it was the uncomfortably hot kind of red that one was apt to develop in response to the worst of humiliation.

When he looked back at her, he saw that Martine was blushing too, but hers was undoubtedly the _good_ kind. She appeared to be waiting—waiting for him to respond, most likely. He had no choice but to do just that.

"_M-mademoiselle_," he stuttered, straightening his tie and attempting to appear somewhat levelheaded, "I'm afraid I may have misinterpreted the nature of our rendezvous."


	3. Something of an Explanation

"I truly am sorry," Tintin apologized again. "I know it must look like I've been leading you on, but I promise you that was not my intention."

Martine still said nothing. She merely maintained her pace beside the reporter and tried to keep her head held high as well. The world was blurring beyond her eyeglasses, distorted by embarrassment and latent tears, both of which she was working her best to hide.

Tintin's goal, meanwhile, was to ease the tension and perhaps find some sort of resolution. "You have every right to be upset with me," he went on. "It was my fault for being so oblivious, for not saying something beforehand, for—"

"Oh, will you stop it already!"

Tintin took a step back, as did a couple of strangers next to them on the street. When quiet, humble Martine was agitated enough to outburst, that was a sign that something was very wrong indeed.

"Enough with the apologies. I understand, alright? I understand just fine. I'm not the fool I used to be, Tintin."

"I never said—"

"Or maybe I am!" Martine interrupted forcefully. "Maybe I _am_ a fool! Because…because the date, and the praise, and the talk, and the…and even that silly _proverb_—I really thought we had something! So I…I thought…"

She gulped and squeezed her eyes shut. With a heavy exhale, she opened them again and continued to speak. "I'm the one who should be saying 'sorry'. I was far too bold. I got an idea in my head and I couldn't let it go. I should've minded my place."

When Tintin recounted his adventures across the world, he often found he had too _many_ words. In situations like these, however, quite the opposite occurred. Such circumstances were somehow much more complicated than any criminal's trap. And now he was the one who simply kept walking, without anything to say in response.

What could he do to reassure her? He did not believe Martine was in the wrong, nor did he believe any woman ought to conceal her true feelings for the sake of a man's comfort.

Just as he was about to tell her so, the young artist spoke again, with her head downcast this time. "Forgive me, Tintin, but…is it really so awful, the thought of being with me?"

Tintin gasped aloud. "No! No, Martine, heavens no. That's not the issue, I promise you. You're a wonderful friend."

Once the words had escaped his lips, he found he must have had misunderstood her again. Rather than brightening up—even a little bit—as he might have expected, she seemed to grow even more glum at his words.

"There's someone else, isn't there," Martine murmured after another few moments of strolling in silence.

Tintin was bewildered, until he followed her thoughtful gaze to the band of gold tight around his left ring finger.

_Oh, no—my ring! I didn't think to take it off…!_

Some months ago, Captain Haddock had surprised his partner with a pair of promise rings, a sign of their commitment in spite of everything working against them. The thick golden bands were each marked with the emblem of an anchor, symbolizing the sea that brought them together. Tintin treasured the gift immensely, and both he and Haddock wore the rings whenever they could, only slipping them off when it seemed dangerous to do otherwise. Tintin had been wearing his all day without even thinking; it had become so normal that not even the Captain had deduced it might become a problem. Martine simply mustn't have gotten a good look at it until now.

_This is it_, the journalist thought, his heart pounding. It looked as if he had no choice but to tell her the truth now. He could only hope that she would understand. She was worth trusting, wasn't she? She wouldn't out them, would she?

_I'm sorry, Captain, _Tintin wailed inwardly. He took a deep breath and began to launch into a full confession.

But again his companion, drawing her own conclusions, spoke before he could. "Well, whoever it is you're with, I hope she's happy," she said. "She's awfully lucky to have a man like you. I'm just wondering why I've never heard of her before, what with all your international fame."

Though there was still a hint of bitterness in her voice, her statement came off as genuinely sincere. If she knew the whole truth, would she still be so accepting? If she knew that her friend's lover was not a "_she_" at all, and that she had in fact heard of him, many times over…what would she think then?

His mouth worked before his head, this time, and it decided to go along with the idea Martine was posing. "Well, er…that's exactly the problem, you know? If we made ourselves public, it might cause us trouble, considering my…well, my _fame_, as you said. You understand?"

_It's not a _total_ lie,_ he assured himself. And besides, it wasn't as if he had never pulled off a lie before. He had spun a good one plenty of times, in fact. When he needed to, he could be quite convincing. So why was it so hard now? Why was he so uncomfortable with the tiniest of white lies?

He felt as if he needed to tell a fib…but he didn't want to, and he shouldn't have to. If he was to be honest with himself, his and the Captain's near-constant fear of revealing the state of their relationship upset him deeply. Were he in fact paired up with the nonexistent girlfriend of Martine's belief, or even Martine herself, he wouldn't need to behave this way. They could show what they were. They could show _pride_ in what they were. They could even be _married_! Imagine not having to pretend that what made them so happy was some sort of affliction. Imagine amounting to more than a pair of rings that in the grand scheme of the world and the law, meant virtually nothing.

But Tintin knew that nothing could change the facts. That he was steady in love with his dear Captain, and he wouldn't trade him for anything, was the greatest _fact_ of them all.

He sighed and looked back at Martine. Her expression told him that she did not fully accept what he had told her, and he wasn't surprised. Another day, perhaps, he would tell her everything. But right now, his main concern was getting out of this situation that had begun so well and spiraled downward so fast.

At the next crosswalk, Miss Vandezande announced that she lived down the turn of that road. Before Tintin could say a goodbye or even offer to see her home, she vanished into the growing afternoon mist. Then, as if on a cue, thunder boomed from overhead; a storm was brewing on top of everything.

"_Au revoir, Mademoiselle,_" Tintin murmured somberly. All he could do now was make his own way home, and hope that somehow, his friendship with Martine could be salvaged later. Heaven only knew what the Captain would say when Tintin told him what had happened…for Tintin himself now knew better than to make any assumptions.

_Snakes,_ he cursed silently. _Oh, snakes, oh, crumbs, oh…oh, blistering barnacles!_

* * *

Just past five o'clock in the evening, Tintin stumbled into the _château de Moulinsart_, completely drained and sopping wet. He could add "not bringing a raincoat" to his list of mistakes of the day.

The young man hung up his drenched jacket, careful to keep it away from the drier coats on the hooks beside it. Moments later, Snowy became the first to greet him. The faithful little dog practically leapt into his master's arms and gave his face an exuberant licking.

"Hey there, boy," Tintin said, in a tone lower than his usual enthusiasm. "I missed you too." He gave the terrier's curly white coat a ruffle and his nose a peck. "Where's the Captain?"

A cough from the next room over was all the reply he needed. Tintin set Snowy back down onto the floor and then both of them walked through the adjacent doorway. Sure enough, Captain Haddock was there in an armchair, blowing lazy smoke from the pipe between his lips.

Tintin's approach broke the silence and Haddock's thoughts. He set his pipe in the nearby ashtray, stood up and stretched. "Welcome home, love," he said. He walked up to his partner, then stopped as he noticed wet clothes and tired eyes. "Thundering typhoons, you're soaked!"

"Hello to you too, Captain," Tintin said back, forcing a smile. "Listen, I think we need to talk."

"Not right now, we don't," Haddock countered. "Just look at you, you're a mess! A warm bath and a change of clothes, now _that's_ what you need."

"Archie—"

"Not another word, lad. I insist. You get yourself cleaned up, and then we'll have supper and we can chat all you want. All right?"

Haddock gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek, and with that a _real_ smile graced Tintin's face. The Captain came off as gruff more often than not, but underneath that rough exterior he bore an incredible heart. He knew that something was up, but all he was concerned about was Tintin's own well-being. So the younger man knew it would be more than unwise to disregard his advice a second time.

"Okay," Tintin murmured. "I'll be back in a little while."

* * *

A few hours later, with bathing and eating and all routine things behind them, Tintin and Haddock retired to their bedroom. They lay snug and close together in their grand king-size bed—or, as they sometimes liked to refer to it, the _two-kings_-size bed.

Over the course of the evening, Tintin had detailed all that had happened that afternoon. His Captain had been kinder and more understanding than the young man could have hoped for. Without so much as an "I told you so," Haddock had listened to his lover's every word, from every commendation to every worry to every regret. He, too, knew the difficulty of keeping their secret hidden. Just that, the act of simply _listening_, was enough to relax the youth's raging nerves.

"I ought to tell her the truth," Tintin whispered then. The thought had been nagging at him since he parted ways with Martine, and now he had finally come to a decision on the matter. "I'll meet her at the gallery early and explain myself. I don't deserve her friendship if I can't maintain her trust."

"I'll come with you," Haddock said. He ran his hand through short ginger hair, gazing down upon Tintin with sympathy and care in his green-blue eyes.

"No, you don't have to," Tintin protested, but the Captain was having none of it.

"Hush. I'm coming whether you like it or not. I want to be there if anything else goes wrong."

Tintin had heard such declarations from his lover so many times over, and still they melted him inside. "All right," he ceded, for how could he possibly shake off such unwavering loyalty?

"And besides," Haddock added, "I think it'd be better for it to come from both of us, you know, if you're planning to tell her…everything."

Tintin nodded in acceptance, then laid his head back down onto his partner's warm chest.

"That's that," the older man asserted. "We'll go down to Miss Martine's gallery first thing tomorrow—"

"Tomorrow's Sunday," Tintin mumbled sleepily. "'S not open Sundays."

"Monday, then."

"Monday," came the echo of agreement, before Tintin fell asleep to the hypnotic rhythm of the most familiar, most comforting hands smoothly running up and down his bare back.


	4. Truly Lucky

Sunday came and went as a day of rest. Though he might not admit it aloud, his and the Captain's simple little pastimes served as the vital comfort Tintin had needed. The calm of Tintin's yoga routine, the strum of Haddock's old guitar, their early-morning coffee and their late-afternoon tea: it all summed up to a rejuvenating, refreshing day. By the time night fell and they went off to bed again, Tintin felt ready to face his anxieties at last.

On Monday morning, just as planned, Tintin and Haddock set off for Brussels in the Captain's car. The gallery opened later on Mondays than most of the week, and so it wasn't too dreadfully early that they had to raise anchor.

The breeze billowing through his hair and coat reminded Tintin of adventures past. Now, just as then, with the man he so loved by his side, no challenge was insurmountable. They had stood up to gangsters and thieves, held their own against kidnappers and killers, outsmarted everything in their path from the mountains of Peru to the mountains of Tibet. It stood to reason that they would make it through this too.

At a stoplight, the Captain glanced over to his companion. "You all right, lad?" he asked. "We don't have to go through with this if you don't w—"

"No, I'm fine," Tintin asserted. "I feel that this is something I need to do."

The Captain gave a nod; again he was impressed by his lover's determination and sense of duty. That, and it hadn't been that long since he himself had unintentionally revealed the state of their relationship to none other than the Milanese _Nightmare _Bianca Castafiore. Though he had thought his life was ruined, it turned out to be quite the opposite as for once, the diva had given him hope rather than fear. Haddock saw that there were some people in the world who weren't _complete_ imbeciles, and they could be found in the most unexpected places. With this new development in their lives, which was both a blessing and a challenge, Haddock and Tintin needed all the friends they could find. And as far as Haddock knew, Miss Martine Vandezande seemed like a kind-hearted lass. A bit gullible, yes; a bit emotional, perhaps; but she was sweet. Anybody Tintin trusted had to be worth _something_.

Around a quarter to nine, the Captain parked a block away from the Fourcart gallery. Tintin let out a deep exhale and began to scan the streets for a glimpse of Martine. Their timing was good; he knew from his previous chats with her that this was about the time she would be arriving to work.

"D'you see her?" Haddock asked.

"Not yet, I—wait a minute! Is that—" Tintin leapt out of the car with great intensity, chasing after something that the Captain had yet to see. He twisted around the other pedestrians, bounded around a corner, and disappeared from view.

The elder man got up and ambled behind after his initial surprise wore off. "Ten thousand thundering typhoons, Tintin, what's got into you?" he demanded once he caught up to his partner.

Tintin turned around at the sound of the Captain's voice. "Ah, there you are, Captain," he said, and as he took a step to the side he revealed a particular red-haired, glasses-wearing young woman behind him. "_Mademoiselle_, you remember Captain Haddock."

"I-it's a pleasure, miss," Haddock stuttered. "But Tintin, how'd you know she was here?"

"I spotted _Madame_ Laijot, the gallery bookkeeper, coming around the corner. Knowing she and _Mademoiselle_ Martine take the same route to work and come in about the same time, I figured she couldn't be far behind. And I was right!"

Haddock shook his head. His boyfriend was surely something. "Where is she, now, then? _Madame_ whosie-whatsit?"

It was Martine who spoke up then. "She went on ahead," she said quietly. "I told her she needn't bother waiting on me while I talked with Tintin."

So they _had_ been talking—and talking decently, by the looks of it. That was a good sign.

"Why don't we go inside," Martine suggested. "I've still got some time before I have to open up the gallery, and it'd be better to talk in there than be in people's way out in the streets. Plus, it's chilly out today." She stuck her hands in her jacket pockets as if to further prove her point.

"You're right. Let's," Tintin agreed. "Are you coming, Captain?"

"Aye, landlubber, I'm right behind you."

* * *

Tintin and Captain Haddock were both admirable men, and Tintin especially had been incredibly considerate. Honestly, even before he came back, Martine had known she would not stay upset with him for long.

A good deal of talk passed between the three in the next half-hour, but for Martine what was most significant was what was left unsaid. She was an artist, after all—or, at least, she was becoming one. What was an artist without an eye for detail and a knack for signs and symbols? She could tell already that Haddock was someone she'd like to get to know better. She could see that beneath that grumpy face and shaggy beard he was the softest of souls. She noticed the unparalleled emotion in his eyes when he looked at Tintin, and the corners of the old sailor's lips turning upwards as the young reporter spoke.

The Captain was wearing a navy jacket and beneath that, a heavy wool sweater. Embroidered onto the thick blue fabric was an emblem of an anchor. It was fitting for a seafaring man, she supposed, but the design reminded her of something more than salt and fish.

When she had met him two days ago, Tintin had been wearing a ring as one would wear a wedding band. Though nothing was around his left ring finger today, Martine had seen it close enough to remember what it looked like. A circle of dark gold, etched with nearly the same pattern of lines that marked his best friend's sweater.

There was nothing on Haddock's fingers today either, but there didn't need to be. It was enough to see the tiny sparks flying in both pairs of blue eyes.

_I'm not the fool I used to be, Tintin,_ Martine thought with a smile. In that moment she understood everything, right down to the deeper meaning of a certain Syldavian proverb, and she accepted it without spite. Who was she to disrespect these two great men, to deny what made them who they were? She'd seen much stranger things in the past year than a pinch of a rather atypical romance.

The secretary-turned-_artiste _knew that there would always be a flutter in her chest when it came to Tintin, the famous boy reporter. And yet, she realized that it would be much better to keep a friend than to lose a lover. At any rate, it definitely would be far from responsible to let her infatuation cloud her judgement. Whether or not she was head-over-heels for an attractive young man, she still had a job to do.

Captain Haddock excused himself to the restroom at one point, leaving Tintin and Martine alone. The journalist began to apologize for his actions again, but Martine interrupted him.

"Will you stop it already?" she said. Though her words were the same as they had been the last time they conversed, her tone was much lighter now. "I understand now—I truly do. It was an innocent mistake; you're forgiven, and I hope you've forgiven me. I'm honored to call myself your friend."

Tintin seemed to relax at that, and allowed himself to smile, just a bit. "I'm so glad to hear that, because you see—"

"No more." Martine moseyed over in the direction of her work desk. "We had a misunderstanding, and that's all there is to it. It happens to the best of us. It doesn't mean you're worth any less. The fact that you've come all this way just to speak to me proves that. You're a fine man, Tintin. The Captain is lucky to have you."

"_M-mademoiselle_!" Shock was spreading across Tintin's face when Martine looked back at him. Yet, there was a hint of relief mingling between his freckles as well.

Martine said nothing more. She held a finger to her lips and gave him a wink, before settling down to her work. She could tell she had done well: a good artist, like a good reporter, was always looking for ways to change the world, one friend at a time.

A few minutes later, Tintin led the Captain back to their car, beaming brighter than the still-rising sun.


End file.
